It was in the morning. Gundel was telling her father how strange cousin
Irmgard was. She hardly ever spoke a word; she tasted scarcely anything
but a little milk, fresh from the cow: and she seemed so strange. She
would lie for hours out on the cliff where she could get a glimpse of
the distant lake. The little pitchman was also puzzled by Irma's
behavior. For some time past she had done no work, and had given up
going with him when he went out to gather herbs.
"I'd like to ask the great doctor down there--the one I fetch the herbs
for--what I ought to do," said he, "but Walpurga says I shan't. Besides
that, I don't see that there's anything the matter with our Irmgard. I
thought of trying something, but I don't know whether it would do any
good with a human being. Now if a beast gets sick, all you've got to do
is to cut out the sod that he's lying on and turn it, and then the
beast will get well again. I wish I knew whether that would help a
human being."
"Oh father!" replied Gundel, "that's awful. I'm afraid they'll soon put
the sod on our dear Irmgard. She's so good; and when you speak to her
it seems as if she has to stop to think of what you're saying, and make
up her mind what to answer."
Thus they talked together, and then separated to go about their work
for the day, while Irma lay on her blue rug, now looking out at the
wide world, now closing her eyes and thinking and dreaming to herself.
Her life was a voiceless calm, as if she were part of the animate and
inanimate world about her; as if she always had been and ever would
remain here: a child of man, to whom no flower, no living thing on
earth, nor bird soaring in the air was unknown. The mountains, the
clouds, the bright day, the starry night--all were dear and familiar to
her.
Irma, as was her wont, was lying on the mossy slope. She gazed into the
distance, and then her eyes sought the ground to watch the busy life
stirring among the blades of grass and the mosses. Now and then,
she would unconsciously raise the mold with her finger and find
pine-needles which had accumulated for years and years, and, below
them, the _débris_ of plants that had been decayed since the world
began; hers was the first human eye that rested upon them.
The cows often approached, and grazed near by without disturbing her.
She could hear their breathing, and yet did not move. Now and then, the
leading cow would stand before her and, with head lifted on high, gaze
at the distant landscape. Then it would go on feeding, and, at times,
would keep the fodder in its mouth as if it had, while looking at the
prostrate form, forgotten that it wanted to eat.
Awake or dreaming, a wonderful life opened up to Irma. The more she
rested, the greater was her yearning for rest. Indescribable weariness
seemed to have seized upon her. Work and thought wearied her as they
had never done in all the years she had passed in the world. She often
tried to arouse herself, but could not. She found a peculiar pleasure
in this feeling of heaviness, in this resting on the ground. Hundreds
of songs and entire musical works passed through her mind. Myriad
thoughts arose and floated away with the light breath of air. Nothing
could be seized and retained.
It was hot noonday. The heat was intense. There was not a breath of
air, even up among the mountains, and the cows were resting in the
shade. Irma had walked out alone. The little pitchman had gone to town
to deliver some parcels of herbs. Irma wandered on further and further,
and at last reached the source of the brook. She was sitting by the
broad basin into which the water fell, and which reflected the dark
shadows of the overhanging trees. Irma bent forward and saw her image
reflected in the water. It was the first time, in many years, that she
had seen it, and she now greeted it with a smile. Not a breath of air
was stirring; not a sound was heard.
Irma looked about her, and then, hurriedly undressing herself, plunged
into the water. She swam about, dived and rose to the surface again,
and a feeling of unexpected delight came over her. Only the sun that
shone through the branches for a moment, beheld that wondrous lovely
form.
All was silent again. Irma had dressed herself and lay dreamily at the
edge of the woods, while sweet melodies passed through her soul.
Suddenly, she heard her name called again and again, and in a loud
voice. She answered as loud as she could, and at last Gundel came up
and said:
"Irmgard, come to the cottage right away. There's a gentleman there
with a servant, and he wants to speak to you."
Irma, who had partly raised herself, lay down again. She felt a heart
pang. What could it be? Had her time come? and must she again return to
the busy world?
She arose to her feet and asked:
"Don't you know who it is?"
"No, but he says he spent the night with us some years ago. He's a
tall, handsome young man; but, poor man, he's stone blind."
"The blind man wandering?" thought Irma to herself, turning toward the
hut.
"God greet you!" cried she, while still distant.
"Yes, that's your voice," replied the blind man, stretching out his
arms and opening and closing his hands. "Come! Come nearer. Give me
your hand!" He quickly drew off his gloves with his teeth, and his face
wore a strange expression. Irma drew near and took his delicate, white
hand in hers.
"Your hand trembles!" he exclaimed. "Does it frighten you to see me
blind?"
Irma could not speak, and nodded as if the blind man could see what she
did.
The sun's rays fell directly upon the face of the unfortunate one, and
his sightless eyes stared into vacancy.
"You've grown thinner than you were," said the blind man. "May I pass
my hand over your face?"
"Yes," replied Irma, closing her eyes.
"You're not as beautiful as you were two years ago. Your eyelids are
hot and heavy. You must have been grieving. Can I help you? I'm not
rich, but I can still do something."
"Thank you. I've learned to help myself." Being addressed in High
German, Irma had involuntarily replied in pure German, without a trace
of dialect.
The stranger started, turned his head to the right and left, and, while
doing so, stretched out his neck so far that it was almost unpleasant
to look at him.
Taking him by the hand, Irma led him to the bench in front of the
cottage. She felt a tremor while holding this fine and delicate hand in
hers, but, gathering all her strength, she repressed it. She sat down
by the blind man, and asked him how he had happened to come there.
"You remember," said he, "that when I was with you last, I knew what my
fate would be. I wrestled with myself for a long while and learned to
know how to bear it. We know that we must all die, and yet we can be
cheerful; and I knew that I must lose my sight and became cheerful,
too."
Irma heaved a deep sigh.
"Do you understand what I mean?" asked the blind man.
"Yes, indeed. Go on, I like to hear your voice."
"I knew it, and that's why I have come to you. I was down at the farm,
but they were all out harvesting, and the child's maid told me that you
were up here and so I came to you. I walked a good part of this way
before, when I was overtaken by the storm, and I can now, in memory,
renew the pleasure with which I once beheld these mountains. What I
then told you I intended to do, has come to pass. I have all the
beautiful landscapes within me. I can see the sparkling sunlight, the
brook leaping over the rocks, the sparkling lake, and the trees
standing side by side in the peaceful forest. I kept constantly telling
my guide where we were. He was quite beside himself to think that I
knew it all so well. But the best of it all is that I have beautiful
human images in my mind. My greatest desire was to see you once more. I
say 'to see you,'--I mean, to hear you speak, but I see you when you
speak."
Irma replied, telling him how well she understood and sympathized with
him; and when she spoke to him of the difficulty of walking, how the
groping foot first seeks the ground before the muscles are straightened
to take a step, the blind man asked, with surprise:
"And how do you know that?" He again stretched out his head and bent it
back in the same unpleasant manner as before.
"I once knew a blind man who told me. It is terrible to think that
you're obliged to depend upon a stranger. Blind Gloster implores his
guide not to forsake him."
"Maiden! Who are you? Was it you who spoke? It was your voice--or is
there some one with you? How do you know that?"
"I read it once," said Irma, biting her lips till the blood almost
came. "I read it once," she repeated, forcing herself to use the
dialect again.
The blind man's head bent low and he held his hands between his knees.
A convulsive movement passed over his fine youthful features, as if
tears were ineffectually struggling to escape. He leaned his head back
against the wall, and at last said:
"So you can read, and so intelligently. Could you--? No, I'll not ask
you."
"Ask me what you will. I feel kindly toward you and have often thought
of you."
"Did you? You, too?" cried he hurriedly, while he moved his head about
in the same strange manner as before. "Maiden!" said he, "give me your
hand once more. Tell me, could you give me this hand and let your eyes
be mine?"
"Good sir," said Irma, interrupting him, "I should like to feel that
your coming here and your going hence were for the best. I think that I
can and ought to tell you all. This is the second time I've seen you--"
"I've seen you but once, and yet I shall never forget your face," said
the blind man.
"Come with me. I'll lead you, and when we're alone I'll tell you all
and prove how grateful I am for your kindness."
"There must be a spot somewhere hereabouts, from which a glimpse of the
lake beyond the mountains can be obtained," replied the blind man. "Can
you lead me there?"'
"Certainly," said Irma, startled at this wonderful inner life. She led
him, across the meadow, to the mountain side.
"Sit down here," said she, "and I'll sit beside you. What I am about to
tell you is for you alone. Remember, only for you!"
He raised his hand and exclaimed: "I swear!"
"You need no oath," replied Irma. "Know then that I am one who has
vanished from the fashionable world. Ask not for my name. Life in all
its splendor was mine, and yet I walked in darkness. I was a wretched
worldling! I had sunk so low that I sought to destroy myself. If it
were only possible, I would gladly fly way with you--just as the birds
are flying--through the rosy, golden glow of evening, and vanish into
infinite space. But I've learned to know that life is a duty, and that
all we have and are in this world depends upon our finding the world
within ourselves and ourselves in the world. You now bear the world
within you, where none can take it from you. We can call nothing ours,
unless we possess it in that way. And when death comes at last, it
takes nothing from us, but simply gives us back to the world--"
"Maiden!" suddenly exclaimed the blind man, "what are you doing? Who
are you? No mortal speaks thus! Must I become superstitious? Must I
believe in angels? Is there some one with you? Who can it be? Who are
you? Give me your hand!"
"Be calm: 'tis I," said Irma, offering him her hand, which he kissed
again and again. She withdrew it, and, passing it over his face, said:
"Be calm. I've merely looked out into the world just as you have
already done, and while we sit here--two children of the world and yet
forgotten by it--we are happy, for we belong to eternity. May you be
happy, and may your soul, on wings of music, soar far above all earthly
cares. Take my hand once more. Come, let me lead you hence."
Without uttering a word on the way, he suffered Irma to lead him toward
the cottage.
When they reached it, he called for his guide and his servant, in a
tone of authority.
"Are you going already?" asked Irma.
Leaning on his servant's arm, he left the cottage without answering
her.
She again offered him her hand with the words: "The world in us, and
ourselves in the world!"
His only reply was a nod, his features again twitched convulsively, as
if he were trying to repress his tears.
He had already proceeded as far as the edge of the woods, when he
turned around and called out:
"Come here, maiden. I've something to tell you."
She went up to him and he said:
"I'm a nephew of Doctor Gunther, who was formerly physician to the
king, and now lives but a short distance from here, in yonder little
town. I live with him and am pianist to the queen. If you ever need
help, send to me, or to my uncle. He'll help you, I am sure. But,
depend upon it, I shall mention you to no one."
Having said this, he hurriedly turned on his heel and, leaning on his
servant, descended the mountain.
Irma remained there, looking after him.
Was Gunther alive? And in her very neighborhood?
And now another being carried her half-disclosed life-secret about with
him.
The blind man entered the woods and soon disappeared from view. Irma,
with eyes bent on the ground, returned to her resting-place, where she
remained gazing into the dim distance until night approached.
Over in the woods she beheld a strange-looking, gray cloud with white,
glowing edges. It stood as firmly as if it were a wall. Suddenly, as if
exhaled from the earth, a gust of wind arose, so violent that the trees
bent under its force.
She hurried toward the cottage, and found that the little pitchman had
returned.
"I'm afraid we'll have a storm to-night," said he. "The moon isn't up
yet and doesn't rise till late, and that's a sign of bad weather."
He went out again, in order to drive in the cows. The boy had gone
after the goats, which had strayed off for some distance.